


Greed

by glassthroat



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Even though it seems to be very rare., I do love this ship., Just an EnJu drabble., M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:06:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassthroat/pseuds/glassthroat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kouen's not good at sharing Judal. At all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greed

Kouen had never been a man to  _ **s h a r e.**_  
                  Not since he was a young boy.

The price of being a prince was that he had been taught that ambition was his by right - that he was to take what he desired and give nothing back to the others. His empire would expand and grow and thrive through his own actions and, hopefully, through the actions of his sons and grandsons, provided he live long enough to see such a thing occur. Given that he knew that those with magoi tended to live protracted lifespans compared to the mere mortal soul and the more magoi meant a longer period of time, he would have a considerable frame of a lifespan upon his hands.

But he had not been one to  **s h a r e**  what he considered  _h i s_.  
                         Not  _ever_.

Maybe that was why every time Judal flitted off to Sindria for his little taunting flirts with Sinbad, Kouen’s mood darkened drastically to the point where his own servants would quickly absent themselves from his presence. Pacing was not an uncommon thing for the crimson king and how he would pace, his robed figure stalking about like a caged, restless tiger again and again until it seemed that he must wear grooves in the carpeting that covered the teak wooding of the floors within his chambers. Over and over he would rise from the chair that he would be talked into and move, long legs leaving him stepping here and there as he awaited Judal’s return. Whether it took days or hours, he would not relax until the sight of Judal’s carpet was reported upon the horizon returning to the kingdom’s borders with the brunette oracle upon its surface. And then the prince would spend time composing himself into a stoic nature, only those eyes burning to betray him.

And how he  _hated_ seeing the state of the magi when he returned.

There was little doubt that Judal would get what he went to Sindria for, Kouen knew, whether it be a fight or a fuck from Sinbad. He was beautiful, with hair that reached his ankles when it was unbound, a lithely muscled form and skills within the bedroom that came from training and natural talent alike. He hated sharing. Perhaps that was why Judal always sought him out whenever he returned, coming to gloat, perhaps, or just to antagonize the imperial prince. Or perhaps the magus simply adored how Kouen responded in that most primal, that most territorial of fashions. Civilized and well-learned Kouen might seem, he was still primal below the surface.

It never took much for Judal to peel back the veneer of the courtly prince, mere words and displays of the marks that Sinbad left behind oft doing the trick.

And Kouen would respond with true territorial male fashion. He would grab Judal and yank him close, dragging his magi into his arms and he would kiss him, all tongue and teeth, uncaring if he was biting into lips still swollen and tender. Judal would clutch at him, not in protest but encouraging every single bit of it. The fingers that would scrape over the magi’s skin were more alike to claws than the touch of a man, the impertinent magus arching into the touch that branded him the prince’s and would proclaim him as such until they faded. It was to his bed that they went next, clothing being dislodged with hands and when Kouen seized those hips with a grip tight enough to bruise (and he thanked the gods that Sinbad never did bruise this part of Judal because he’d have to cut the man’s hands off if he did - just knowing he touched his magi was bad enough), when Judal arched after he’d been made slick by the oils that warmed with body heat, when Kouen filled him — ah.. now that was what he wanted.

They were vigorous, Kouen clutching the hips of the Magi tightly as he rutted into him, teeth at the collarbones since Judal didn’t remove his jewelry easily, biting into the skin to mark, erasing the dapples left there by another mouth that didn’t deserve to be pressed onto that skin. He didn’t share. He never shared. He refused to share Judal but the bastard was like a cat, rubbing on Sinbad as much as he allowed Kouen to touch him and the thought made him growl. And every time those laughing red eyes looked at him, the way they did now, hazed with lust, burning bright red, he grasped those slim wrists and pressed his palms to Judal’s, making those glowing depths snap shut, making that face turn aside. He moved and claimed what was his, ferocious and dangerous as the dragon he could be.

Kouen didn’t share.

He never had.

And when the end came, when they were in bed, when Judal was curled into his side, sullen and pouting, his arms folded atop one another as he glanced down into Kouen’s face with his cheeks puffed out and his cheeks flushed, the prince seemed far less in a foul mood. He didn’t share. And for a time, Judal would remain there, he knew, in his lap and in his bed — until the day came when he would awaken and find that Judal had once more gone off to deal with the king that enchanted him so.

And once more, Kouen would have to remind his magi that he simply did not share.


End file.
